


hand in unlovable hand

by gearyoak



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Monsters, M/M, season 1 AU, steve gets his ass kicked but it's vague
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 22:14:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29479017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gearyoak/pseuds/gearyoak
Summary: It makes him smirk around the filter of his cigarette. The girl still pressed into his side reaches up with a lighter, flicks it with a cherry-red smile on her lips, and Billy can feel the heat of the flame as the end of his cig soaks it up. He breathes deep, fills his lungs, then grips the smoke in the crook between his middle and forefinger. Tilts his head back enough so the girl can drop her head down underneath his chin.It’s power, is what he’s thinking as he watches Harrington watch him. Taking something, people witnessing it, celebrating over it. It’s fucking stupid, realistically. It was a keg stand. Not even a particularly impressive one, by his standards. But it was Harrington’s keg stand record he took, his old friends that were cheering for Billy while he did it. It’s power, and he’s taking it all from Harrington, right in front of his fucking face.-anon asked for billy in season one who tries to take the crown from a king who doesn't want to let it go
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 12
Kudos: 47





	hand in unlovable hand

**Author's Note:**

> ok so long story short i lost the last half of this fic so many times so it's bad. fuck man yknow how it goes i got sick of rewriting because i'm stupid 
> 
> enjoy!!!!!!!!!
> 
> (title is from "no children" by mountain goats

The first time Billy Hargrove sees Harrington, it’s around 8 am. 

He’s been in this town for little over a week, long enough to unload the moving truck, unpack, and be enrolled into this shithole high school. Literally just called Hawkins High because that’s all there is.

In Cali, Billy’s school was one of three in the city. 

It’s horrible. It’s awful. He hates this.

It all turns around when he pulls up to the school when there’s actual kids in it, and not just the office ladies.

The Camaro turns heads here, he notices. It’s not just another loud car that’s a dime a dozen in the streets anymore. Everyone loitering in the parking lot is looking. He can feel Max sitting in the passenger seat next to him tense up like crazy. She’s pulling her skateboard up into her lap, gripping the door handle, head bowed so her hair falls in front of her face, like that’ll make herself invisible. 

Billy pulls into a parking spot in the middle. Max is out of the car before he’s even taking the key out of the ignition, skating away without a word, but he doesn’t give much of a shit.

He gets out himself. One boot on the ground, then the other.

The girls catch his attention first; they titter around the cars their moms let them borrow and aren’t shy enough to look away when he catches their eyes. They’re different, he guesses. All bundled up in a shit ton of clothes and just enough makeup to get by on their pale faces. 

They’re close to the front of the building, so Billy passes by them as he makes his way toward the doors. Two guys and a girl. The girl’s got her shoulders tucked under the arm of one of the dudes; red hair, red coat, eyebrow raised like she couldn’t give a shit - but she’s still looking. The guy next to her is whispering something into her ear, and whatever it was he said makes them both smirk. 

The car they’re leaning against must belong to the third of them, since he’s the only one sitting on it like he can afford to scratch up the paint. Legs bent at the knees, heels kicked up onto the front bumper. He’s watching Billy, too, openly interested. 

And that’s that. 

Doesn’t think much of him. Of any of it. 

He throws open one of the doors to Hawkins High and goes inside.

-

\--

-

The first time Steve sees Billy it’s 7:48 am. 

He’s been checking his watch for the time when he thinks enough of it has passed. Waiting for the first bell. Nancy and Barb hang out around Nancy’s locker right before class starts, and he’s hoping to catch them early enough. His first class is on the other side of the school and Mrs. Hemming’s is a hard ass who shuts the door the second the late bell rings. Actually waits next to it like some sort of army general or some shit. 

So, yeah. Steve knows the time down to the second. 7:48, a new kid climbs out of a midnight blue Camaro.

7:48, and the dreary fall overcast that’s been haunting the town busts open so the sun can shine right down on him, making his gold skin glow, his dirty blond hair shine, his arrogant, cocksure grin blinding. 

He’s got everyone’s attention. He notices, but doesn’t care.

And that’s the thing - Steve’s been in this town for a _long time._ Since he was born. But he hasn’t really spent all his time here. Back when he was young enough and his mother believed having a nanny was a sign of poor parenting - a little ironic now - he used to be carted around the country a few months or so for business trips. He’s been forced into stuffy sweaters and slacks and made to smile politely at people who smiled back at him like they could buy and sell his father and it wouldn’t even come close to breaking the bank. Smiles like those, they felt cold and ruthless. They looked _powerful._

Steve’s seen replications of them here, in Hawkins. Replications people learned from celebrities in magazines, practicing off their pictures. 

This new guy didn’t smile like that. His looks more like it belongs to a catered party in a high-rise than a backyard barbeque in one of Hawkins’ cul-de-sacs. 

But then the kid’s gaze passes over them, him and Carol and Tommy, and it’s too sharp. Too cutting, too obvious. 

Steve can’t look away, but the kid can. Shakes his head with what looks like a scoff and heads for the front doors of the school. 

“Any idea who that’s supposed to be?” Steve asks the two beside him. 

Carol shrugs and lets the gum in her mouth snap loudly. Tommy’s arm comes down from where it was resting along her shoulder. “I could go find out,” he says. Always eager for something new. 

Steve nods, eyes still on the door the kid disappeared behind. “Maybe you should.” 

-

\--

-

Billy leaves the office five minutes after he goes in , coming out with two pieces of paper - his schedule and a school map. They had all his shit ready before he even got through the door. Not much to do around here, he guesses. 

He’s heading toward a trash can by the bathrooms to throw out the crumpled map - the school is a square for a population of twelve kids, he’ll manage - when another person falls into step next to him. He stops the second he realizes it, right in the middle of the hall, and - he doesn’t necessarily make a face at the freckled kid grinning back at him. But he thinks the lack of reaction - _hopes_ the lack of reaction says enough. 

It doesn’t, because Freckles is going, “New kid, right?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, sees the balled up map and goes, “Oh, you don’t need that man. You get a schedule yet? I’ll show you around.” 

So he does. 

He says his name is Tommy and he calls him Billy even after he sees the name on the schedule - _William Hargrove -_ and Billy himself can’t help but think that that was a good guess from the kid. 

He tells Billy that he has lunch with him, which isn’t too much of a surprise because the student body is split into half for the two lunch periods, so it was a fifty-fifty shot. He shows Billy his first class, English III. Shows him the bathroom with a window in it and it’s in the corner of a hall with only lockers in it, so teachers don’t really go near it. 

And then, for the second time, Tommy shows him Harrington. 

He catches Billy’s eye again from where he’s leaned up against a locker, resting his full weight on one shoulder, arms crossed over his chest. His attention shifted from some girl over to Billy real quick, fast enough that the girl doesn’t seem to notice. She couldn’t quite look him in the eyes, anyway, shoulders drawn up close to her ears. 

He doesn’t look away from Billy even though it’s obvious that Billy sees him staring. Even Tommy notices it, nudges his arm with an elbow and nods toward the kid, goes, “That’s Steve Harrington - he kinda runs this school.” 

Billy huffs out something like a laugh through his nose, eyes narrowing at the kid across the hall. 

_Used to,_ he wants to say. _He used to run this school._

\- 

\--

-

So it goes like this -

The school seems to split within a week. 

The draw to Billy Hargrove is a lot, Steve gets that. He’s brand new from the wild, far away land of California. He’s good looking, his personality is just warm enough to stand next to but get too close and it’s likely to burn. 

He’s intriguing. It made Steve want to talk to him at first. The kid’s first day, when Steve saw that they shared a gym class, he’d tried to introduce himself - needlessly, since he knew Tommy had to have done it earlier that day. 

He was just being nice.

He just wanted to see. Be near that burn, even for a second. 

Billy bowled him over before he could get a chance to get him one on one. They’re playing basketball and Billy’s skins, Steve’s shirts. It’s almost ironic, or poetic, or something. Starting off on opposing sides.

He snagged the ball out from under Steve, actually swept him off his feet for good measure. Steve landed on his back and Billy made the shot, walked back to the sound of his team cheering for him. Picked Steve up off the floor with one hand and went, “Harrington, right?” 

He didn’t let go of Steve’s hand, kept it tight in his fist so Steve couldn’t back away. 

“One and only,” Steve had replied, still a little breathless from how hard he’d hit the floor. Then, just to piss with him, added on, “You’re the new kid, right?” 

Everyone knew Billy Hargrove, and Billy Hargrove himself seemed to know that, too, if the way his eyes narrowed had meant anything. His hand had tightened around Steve’s to the point where he felt the joints in his fingers creak. Steve grins at him so he doesn’t grimace.

“You were moving your feet,” Billy states instead of answering. “Plant them next time.” He draws Steve in, gets them nose to nose, and hisses, “ _Draw a charge.”_ Then he shoved him away, making him stumble back and he nearly fell again. 

It’s been about a week and a half since then, and the line’s been made clear. Billy isn’t interested in Steve being his friend, apparently. He’s more interested in _taking_ all of Steve’s friends.

It starts with basketball, in more ways than one. After gym, Coach Harp, doubling as their teacher, calls for Billy to stay after class. He starts showing up at practices, and he’s as dominant there as he is in gym. No actual experience with a real team. Just picked up everything he learned in street games back home. 

That, like everything else about Billy, intrigues the rest of the team. 

“He’s a _sophomore?”_ Some of ‘em would say, very clearly impressed, even if it’s reluctant at first.

Other’s nudge Steve, nod at Billy, ask, “Why don’t you put ‘im in his place, Harrington?” 

And Steve’ll just laugh, because he really does find it funny. He’s _really_ thinking that this could be fun, if Billy plays the game right. 

-

\--

-

Billy doesn’t pay much attention to Harrington until a party on some otherwise uneventful Friday night. 

He’s feeling good. He’s lost count of how many drinks he’s got in him. Girl’s have been pressing their fronts to his, and he’s been letting them. He’d followed one into the bathroom and now he’s got lipstick stains on his jaw, his throat. He saw them in the mirror as she was giving them to him, realized she was getting too close to getting on her knees, so he opened the door and left without answering her offended scoff. 

He doesn’t see her again once he’s back down in the main part of the house. He sees Harrington, sitting on the back of a couch, Nikes scuffing up the leather on the cushions he’s using as a footrest. He’s got a beer in either hand, Tommy and Carol sitting on the couch at one of his knees, curled up into each other. On the other side were two other jackasses from the basketball team. 

Harrington’s got a pair of shades on, but his head moves in a way that’s obvious he catches Billy staring. Sat above everyone around him, legs spread, relaxed, beer can resting on either knee. Fucking smirks at Billy, cocks his head like he thinks Billy won’t do anything about him. 

Billy works very hard not to outwardly scowl, doesn’t want to give him that. He fights the urge to lock his jaw by popping his mouth open enough to run his tongue along the line of his teeth. Grins while he does it, too, because Harrington’s own smile lessens. 

Tommy and Carol are watching him now, too. Carol with that same faux-disinterest, Tommy leaning his head on hers and waiting eagerly. _C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,_ his expression screams, _c’mere, c’mere, c’mere._

Billy looks away from them like it’s easy and heads for the sliding screen doors, welcomes the cold air on his bare chest. A couple of guys catch him there, thump him hard on the back and say shit that Billy rolls his eyes at, and that makes them laugh. There’s a keg out here, some lightweight being held over it as his buddies count him down. He just makes it to 25 seconds before he’s choking and being forced back to his feet. 

The two guys on Billy’s either side catch him watching. “Current record’s 41 seconds,” one tells him. “Keg King title belongs to Harrington, he’s had it since summer’ve last year.” 

He comes up to the keg and the kids arguing for the next attempt quiet down at the sight of him, but then all the noise is picked back up. The two that follow Billy over are the ones to lift him up, hold him. 

They count up. Billy gets to 42, and doesn’t go any higher, even though he’s pretty positive he can. 

By the time he’s back on his feet, the cheers have all shifted, two syllables, choruses of _BILL-LEE BILL-LEE BILL-LEE BILL-LEE._ The booze is rushing in his blood, now, but he’s not staggering. It’s the steadiest he’s ever felt. There’s hands on him, a girl hanging off his arm, one of the two guys clapping his hand against Billy’s shoulder to the rhythm of the chant. 

Billy rips the nozzle out from between his lips, straightens up, throws his head back. Spits the beer leftover into the air and the kids go crazy at the spectacle. He yells along with them, wordlessly, watches the way the beer mists and sparkles in the moonshine. 

He takes a cigarette when it’s offered to him, gets his hands in his pockets for a light, when he hears, “Looks like we got ourselves a new keg king, Harrington.” 

Most of the crowd’s attention’s shifted. Another poor fuck stepping up to bat, already looking two bad drinks from blacking out. Billy’s eyes don’t even stay on the kid for a second, whips right around. 

Tommy’s smiling at him from the doorway leading inside. He’s leaning on the jam, smiling all wicked, a bottle loose in his grip. Harrington comes up behind him, tall enough to see perfectly over Tommy’s shoulder, mouth pulled down in a frown. He takes off his shades, and his eyes are hard, black from drink, and locked on Billy.

It makes him smirk around the filter of his cigarette. The girl still pressed into his side reaches up with a lighter, flicks it with a cherry-red smile on her lips, and Billy can feel the heat of the flame as the end of his cig soaks it up. He breathes deep, fills his lungs, then grips the smoke in the crook between his middle and forefinger. Tilts his head back enough so the girl can drop her head down underneath his chin. 

It’s power, is what he’s thinking as he watches Harrington watch him. Taking something, people witnessing it, celebrating over it. It’s fucking stupid, realistically. It was a keg stand. Not even a particularly impressive one, by his standards. But it was Harrington’s keg stand record he took, _his_ old friends that were cheering for Billy while he did it. It’s _power,_ and he’s taking it all from Harrington, right in front of his fucking face. 

“King Steve,” Billy sneers, dropping the arm that’s holding his smoke over the girl’s shoulder. Tommy finishes coming through the doorway, moves off to the side for Harrington to take space.

Harrington doesn’t follow him out and he still doesn’t say anything. Billy takes another drag of his smoke to remind himself not to grit his teeth. 

“Gonna give it a shot, Harrington?” Tommy asks - goads. 

It’s like the whole world waits for Harrington to respond, and when he does, it’s with the cock of his head and one of those self-assured grins. “Any other day, maybe, but I’ve got things to do.” 

Billy feels the girl’s scoff across his collarbone. He doesn’t make a noise, too, but he does narrow his eyes at Harrington. There’s a silent _better_ in there. Harrington doesn’t say it, but he means it. _Better, I’ve got better things to do._

Tommy takes another step, closer to Billy. “Suit yourself, man,” he says, deliberately slow, eyes on his friend, and there’s something cold there. “But if you ask me, I think all the fun’s out here.”

Harrington doesn’t even try to hide how he rolls his eyes. He puts his sunglasses back on, turns, and on a sigh replies, “Yeah, whatever - I’ll see you later.” 

The girl is the first to speak. “King Steve leaving a party before ten o’clock? He got a date or somethin’?”

Tommy scoffs, brings his beer back up to his lips and mutters, “Or _somethin’.”_

Billy grins at Harrington’s retreating back, blood singing at Tommy’s tone, the obvious disdain. Annoyance. 

“Don’t cry about it, Hagan.” He drops the arm he had around the girl, claps a hand on Tommy’s shoulders. “Not like you’re losin’ too much. S’a boring fucking prick, anyway.” 

The girl laughs. Billy figures he should’ve learned her name by now. It doesn’t matter. Carol’s sauntering outside, sliding through bodies like the second coming of Moses or some shit, joining them with the pop of her bubblegum. 

Tommy’s looking at him, elated, and Carol is looking at him, considering, and that girl is looking at him, adoring, and the kids outside knew his name, screamed his name. 

Harrington can keep _better._ Billy’ll keep the _power._

_\--_

-

\--

Steve parks his car a few blocks down from the Wheeler’s house and walks until he sees the window on the top right all lit up. Then he starts jogging, excited - relieved. 

It’s, like - it’s _rough,_ getting up there, but he’s able to pull himself up using the low gutter of the garage’s roof. Gets his footing once he’s there and stays low, shimmies along until he can grip the outside of Nancy’s windowsill. She must’ve heard him, because when he looks in she’s already climbing off her bed with this owl-like expression on her face.

And, he’s _fine,_ she kinda just gets the window open at the worst time, right when his shoe slips on one of the shingles, so Nancy hears him draw out a long, “ _shit”,_ as he regains his balance. 

“Steve,” she says, and it sounds like she’s trying to scold him but it’s breathless and - 

“I’m good, I’m good,” he tells her, laughing. 

She doesn’t move off to the side, looks at him with a pinched brow and goes, “You can’t be here.” 

“Sure I can,” he jokes. 

“My parents are right downstairs,” Nancy says. 

“Then let me in before they have to clean me off of your front lawn.” 

She stares at him, lips pursed, and Steve thinks he knows this look. Like maybe she’s trying not to smile. 

It’s easy. Nancy moves. He stumbles in and gets her to laugh. She’s nervous, Steve can tell. Because they’re on her bed, now, and she’s curled up at the headboard as far as she can be from him, loose and sprawled at the foot of her bed, flipping through flashcards. He knows she’s probably waiting for him to crawl towards her. Put her on her back, get in between her legs. Ease her into something she’s not sure she wants to do. She’s probably figuring out how she’s going to get out of it when he tries. 

But he’s staring hard at the cards in his hand, enunciating every syllable on them needlessly to express how focused he is. Really and truly, Steve’s having a hard time looking at her. When he does, she’s looking back at him, with her gently curled hair and her blue, blue eyes and - 

And, okay, here’s the thing - 

Steve’s. 

_Complicated._

Everything’s complicated, to be fair, but it’s different for him. Kind of. He’s sure he’s not the only one, but it’s that unspoken rule. Don’t ask, don’t tell. He broke that rule _one time._ Tommy, of all people - not that - he didn’t. He just wanted to know. They were, like, thirteen and Tommy started talking about girls, and that was easy. Steve _likes_ girls. Could talk about them, too. 

But then he’d said some offhand comment about an actor he can’t even remember. Said something he might’ve said about a girl. Steve, to this day, remembers so vividly how Tommy had looked at him. Confused, fuckin’ _alarmed._ Steve never did it again; they talked nearly every day for four years after that and they pretend that it hadn’t happened. 

Tommy remembers, though. Steve knows that for sure. 

Because, now, Billy Hargrove. 

Billy Hargrove, all because of Nancy Wheeler. 

Tommy and Carol make it no secret that they don’t like Nancy, and it’s fair, since Nancy doesn’t like them, either. It kinda sucks. Steve likes all of them. 

And it kinda _sucks_ , because of Billy Hargrove. 

Steve looks Nancy and just sees Billy fucking Hargrove, sharp-jawed and glowing. Lipstick smeared on his skin, chest shining, and _blue fucking eyes._ Tommy standing next to him, obviously bitchy about him wanting to leave some generic ass party early. Watching Steve with his head tilted toward Billy, going _what about this one? Wouldn’t you rather this one?_ without even moving his mouth.

It’s just.

It’s just sorta trash.

Billy doesn’t even _like_ Steve. 

“Hey,” Nancy’s saying after maybe twenty minutes of flashcards. They’re not even halfway through the stack. She leans forward over her notebook and reaches out, like she might’ve been going to put a hand on his leg, right under his knee, but doesn’t actually do it. “You can go back if you want.” 

It’s _trash._

Nancy is a nice girl. A really, really nice girl. Not necessarily Steve’s usual type, but that’s the thing about her. Smart, independent, expects more. Steve thinks that maybe, if he spends enough time working at it, he might want to _do_ more because of her. Wants her to think he’s just like her. She’s pretty, too; a girl Steve’s dad wouldn’t mind showing up for their annual family dinner. 

And maybe that’s the thing. Maybe that’s why he’s struggling like this. It’s weird, to have your _dad_ in mind when dating a girl. He wishes shit wasn’t like this. But he’d been getting on Steve, lately. Senior year incoming and honestly, besides a subpar basketball season, Steve doesn’t have too much to show for it. Recent buzzwords in the Harrington home are _responsibility_ and _future_ and _job._

What will Steve be responsible for when he graduates? How will Steve pay for those responsibilities? Who will be a part of Steve’s future? 

_Maybe_ that’s why he’s been so stuck on Billy Hargrove. The kid’s almost a literal physical representation of everything Steve thought he was allowed to be. Young, charismatic, taking what he wants and living easy because of it. 

But now his dad is talking about _growing up_ and _being realistic_ and _earning your keep._ Which, like, he guesses is fair. 

He doesn’t have to like it, though. And he certainly doesn’t have to roll over easy. 

So that’s why, come Monday, the next time they’re on the court, Steve shoves _Billy_ to the ground. It’s hard; he’s been having to play the best basketball of his life everyday, even in practice, just to hold his own against the kid. But he manages it, steals the ball and takes Billy’s legs out from under him, passes it to the closest teammate so he can fucking _smile_ down at Billy. 

It’s like Billy’s shocked to his very core. As still as can be in the exact position he fell in, shoulder on the waxed wood, knees bent, heels squeaking on the floor. Blue fucking eyes _wide,_ locked on Steve like the thought of his own dirty trick being used against him is so far beyond the realm of possibility. 

Steve should be a little embarrassed, honestly. He’s out of breath and a little sweaty. He’s sure there’s some redness in his cheeks just from pure exertion of trying to pull this off, but fuck it. _He’s_ the one standing, and Billy’s the one left on the floor, looking up. 

It doesn’t last long. Billy’s springing back to his feet, eyes still wide but jaw locked, mouth tight. Fuming. Steve feels himself straightening even before he’s close, Billy coming up on him until they’re nose to nose. He’s about to say something snarky, something that’s going to get him punched, definitely. Because he’s looking at Billy and the longer he keeps this shitty smile on his face the more Billy’s jaw seems to set harder. 

An upperclassmen beats him to it, though. The one Steve passed the ball to. He whoops, must’ve scored. High-fives one of their other teammates and goes, “ _That’s_ what I like to see, Harrington!” 

Another kid knocks into Steve’s shoulder good-naturedly, but addresses Billy when he says, “Playtime’s over, Hargrove. You’ve been having too much fun.” 

The heat of Billy’s glare is smothering. His eyes watch the kid as he jogs away, but they flick back to Steve in the next second. 

“Hey,” Steve says, still smiling as he backs away, “thanks for the advice, man.” 

Briefly, he wonders if Billy even knows what he’s talking about. Remembers how he held Steve’s hand in his fist, said _plant your feet_ in that low tone, said _draw a charge._ Steve’s been hearing it for days. 

Billy’s lip pulls back in a snarl and Steve turns away from him finally, thinking that maybe he does. 

\--

-

\--

So.

It goes like this - 

Billy hunts for Harrington in the halls. 

He pushes him harder in basketball and in gym. 

He goes to parties if he knows Harrington’ll be there. 

He goes to parties even if Harrington’s _not_ there, holds the show, because he knows people will talk about him and Harrington’ll hear it. 

And Harrington pushes back, like it’s an even playing field, like he _wants_ to. 

Sometimes he finds Billy before Billy can find him. 

Sometimes, when he’s a captain in their scrimmage games, Harrington chooses Billy first just so he can smile that fucking grin at him. 

Sometimes, he catches Billy’s eye from across the room over the heads of their classmates. 

Harrington dresses in sweaters and polos and khakis and he stands with his arms crossed over his chest and his head cocked to one side and a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes - 

And Billy knows that it doesn’t, hates that he does, because he’s seen the way they light up, catch and burn, the second they do find Billy. Brown that locks him down and goes _oh,_ there _you are._

It’s been weeks, now. Weeks, and one might call this song and dance an obsession. He spends all his time noticing shit like that, shit like Harrington’s eyes and smile and clothes and how his hair’s gotten longer the closer it gets to Christmas, how he’s gotta push his hand through it sometimes to get it off his forehead. 

Billy wants to snap at him a lot of the time, so he does. Sometimes other kids’ll join him. Kids from his classes or the group he sits with at lunch or the team. It’s like they can tell, like maybe Billy’s whole demeanor changes for Harrington. Something shifts and they look at him and then they just know. Like a pack of fucking hyenas, jeering and frothing for a kill that isn’t even theirs. 

And Billy kinda wonders when that happened, too. He gets Harrington with those kids at his back or Harrington’s at his, and he gets _angrier._ Can’t help but think that it’s not supposed to be like this, and he gets pissed off when he can’t figure out _why_. 

\--

-

\--

It gets colder. 

The locker room’s right at the side of the building and the insulation isn’t the greatest. Everyone pretty much resists taking their time anymore. The tile’s too cold, the water lukewarm at best. It makes the locker area full faster. Benches crowded. A lot of conversations, a lot of people to see them.

Steve’s locker is about five down from Billy’s on the same wall. He keeps the door of it open so he doesn’t have to see him. Not like it makes a difference, Steve already knows the guy is, like, completely shredded. He also knows Billy doesn’t dry off even a little bit before he puts his clothes back on. 

He just keeps his head in his locker and shoots the shit with Tommy on his left side, one locker away from him. Already dressed but hanging back, waiting for Steve. 

Maybe, without knowing it or allowing it, he’s subconsciously tuned his ears to anything Billy Hargrove. Because the second he hears the name - only the last name - he stops mid sentence without even thinking and leans back enough to peer around his locker door. 

It’s some senior, Jimmy Walsh. He’s always been tall, but only really filled out end of last school year. He’s got his big, green eyes on Billy. Says Billy’s name again because he hasn’t looked at him yet, still focused on rolling up the cuffs to his jeans, then lacing up his converses. This time, when Jimmy says his name, Billy looks up with clear disinterest, then goes back to start with the other cuff. His white t-shirt was already a little damp from his skin, clinging tight to his shoulders. Steve made himself look at Jimmy Walsh instead. 

“You know a Maxine Mayfield?” Jimmy Walsh asked harshly, like he knew the answer already. And obviously he did, because he goes on with, “She’s your sister, right?” 

Billy slams his locker door shut at that and it’s the only sign that he might be angry, because his expression is still eerily calm when he says, “Step-sister.” 

“Who gives a shit,” Jimmy Walsh snaps. “Whatever the fuck she is - my brother comes home looking the way he did yesterday, it’s gonna start being a problem between _us._ Is that clear?” Billy doesn’t answer, just straightenss up and turns to look Jimmy Walsh in the eyes. He’s not happy, Steve can tell. He’s spent a few months looking for all the ticks, making sure he affected Billy in the way that he wants to. So, despite the way the corner of Billy’s mouth picked up, all Steve could see was the way his nostrils flared, the pinch in his brow, the whites of his eyes. “Gotta start keeping the bitches in your life in line, Hargrove. Sick of you walking around this school like you fucking own it - like your whole family owns this town just because you come from Cali, from the _big city,_ like that means a fucking thing. It’s bullshit, kid, you - “

He says _kid_ and when he does, he lifts his arm, jabs his pointer finger in the middle of Billy’s chest, prods and Billy gives a full-bodied twitch, like he’s going to move - 

But Steve’s locker shuts. Not as hard as Billy’s slammed, but it’s Steve’s locker and everyone turns to look. Steve’s blood is cold and he’s got a smirk on his face, but he’s fucking _burning_ in his chest, thinking _don’t touch that,_ and, _that’s not yours, don’t touch that._

“Simmer down, Jim,” Steve drawls, because he knows how this tone can get people fuming. It doesn’t help that Tommy seems to feed off of shit like this, either, because he’s snickering beside Steve. He always did have a grating laugh and, worse yet, he knew how to use it. 

Jimmy Walsh looks between both of them, but chose the easiest target. “Got something to say, Hagan?” 

Tommy doesn’t open his mouth, lets Steve answer for him. 

“He’s probably thinking what everyone in here is thinking,” he says as he shoulders his gym bag on. Then, he starts counting off on his fingers as he starts listing, “That your brother’s a little bitch for getting his ass kicked by a girl, that a family moving from the west coast didn’t do much to make you less interesting because no one gave a shit about you before, and that no one in this whole goddamn school is afraid of Jimmy _Dogwater_ Walsh.” 

The last one’s middle school bullshit, maybe a low blow, but it gets the rest of the guys to laugh. Jimmy visibly flounders because of it, goes red in the face from an obvious combination of rage and embarrassment. He bares his teeth and spits, “ _Fuck_ you, Harrington,” before he’s retreating back to the other side of the locker room. A couple of guys mock him and he pushes passed them, but Steve’s not paying attention to him anymore. 

He’s watching Billy, waiting for the other to look back. He doesn’t. Just stares hard at Jimmy Walsh’s back before scoffing and shaking his head. “Pussies,” Steve thinks he hears him mutter as he tugs his jacket on, then storms out of the locker room. 

_Look at me,_ Steve wants to call after him. 

Tommy nudges Steve with his elbow, goes, “C’mon, man, let’s get the fuck outta here.” 

Steve doesn’t see Billy for the rest of the day. It’s a small school, yeah, like, he sees him in the halls but it’s always at the last second. Not like it used to be, even at the beginning of the day. After last bell rings, Steve’s used to Billy striding by as he heads for the front doors, spinning a lighter in between the fingers of one hand. He doesn’t usually say anything, but he makes Steve hold eye contact.

He doesn’t do that today. Steve doesn’t even see him leave. 

It’s Wednesday, so Nancy stays after school with her friend - Barbara, Steve’s long since learned her name - for English tutoring. Once, Nancy offered to help Steve and he politely declined, because he could think of nothing worse. 

They’re still trying, honestly, but he doesn’t know why. He doesn’t sneak into her room anymore and he doesn’t ask about going on dates and he doesn’t kiss her. Nancy does her part by not asking why things haven’t gone further. He likes talking to her, though. He really does. 

So that’s what he does, up until her person shows up - a freshman girl in a collared shirt with bubblegum between her teeth. Steve knows the look of them by now, raises an eyebrow at Nancy and she gives him a knowing look back, they laugh and he tells her _good luck._

Halls are empty. Parking lot nearly deserted bar the few cars from the kids and teachers left inside and his own. He’s walking passed those few cars, fiddling with his pack of smokes, when he hears the doors to one open. Doesn’t think much of it until he registers gravel being kicked up, heading in his direction, his name being called. 

“Harrington,” Jimmy Walsh calls again.

Steve turns with the unlit cig hanging from his mouth, freezes. Jimmy Walsh keeps getting closer, another guy at his heels. Steve has enough wherewithal to think, _ah shit,_ but not much else.

Pain sings underneath his skin. After a while, the second guy holding him isn’t even necessary. Steve isn’t going anywhere. He’s kinda just waiting for this to be over; he’d just wanted to go home and he still does. 

Jimmy Walsh picks Steve’s head up by the hair at the top of his head, clearly trying to get Steve to look at him, so he does. It’s blurry as shit and there’s a few Jimmy’s but he looks at one of them and lets Jimmy Walsh tell him, “I’m so fucking sick of you underclassmen thinking you can do whatever the fuck you want.” He tightens his fist in Steve’s hair and pulls, drawing his head back, making Steve look _up_ at him. “Not anymore.” Then he drops him, and so does the kid Jimmy had with him. 

So, Steve’s on the ground. The car they get back into peels out of the parking lot and it’s quiet again. It’s cold. He wipes the blood from his face, but it keeps gushing from his nose. 

It’s real fucking cold. 

He gets up, gets into his car, and goes home. 

\--

-

\--

Billy asks to go to the bathroom in last period and ends up leaving all together. 

He drives around town slowly, kills time, gripping his steering wheel tight enough that his fingers go numb. 

He picks up Max on the opposite side of her school. She gives him a look. She’s used to walking all the way around and into the high school parking lot, but Billy doesn’t want to be seen there. Or, really, _he_ doesn’t want to see _anyone._

When they pull back out onto the road, he focuses hard, doesn’t look for the ugly brown car as he passes. Turns his music up as high as it can fucking go, as if he’s expecting Max to ask him questions or talk at all. She doesn’t, he doesn’t either.

She goes right in her room when they get home. Billy keeps ignoring her and she shuts her door. 

The stereo crackles to life and for a while he just paces the line between the dining room and the living room. Walks behind the couch, in front of the dining set Susan had been gunning for back when they still lived in Cali. He’s flicking his lighter even though his cigarette is lit. 

The window he looks out of on every turn shows him nothing but the small fence separating them from their neighbor, the side of the house next to him. When he’s on the other turn, Max’s door is still shut. Susan and Neil are at work. 

It still feels like there’s eyes on him, though. It’s making his skin crawl, his muscles tense, just like how it was back in the locker room. Jimmy Walsh’s breath humid on his face, eyes narrowed - Billy hadn’t really heard what he’d been saying. Just remembers thinking _hit me, hit me, hit me_ over and over again. He’d needed it, scratch that itch he’s been feeling. He’s been keyed up for a while, now, and he’s thinking it has something to do with - 

Fucking Harrington. 

Billy goes into his room, gets his gym clothes back on, then goes to drag out his weights. He lifts, stares up at the ceiling and focuses on counting, makes himself count until he’s shaking.

He lights another cigarette. Adds more weight to the bar, lifts, but not for as long. Shakes and shakes and shakes, so he gets up once more, swearing under his breath. 

Storms into the kitchen. There’s a sink full of dishes, so he does them. Runs the water so hot it makes his skin feel raw. It’s kind of a bad idea. He gets his smoke soggy, so he tosses it with another cuss. Goes back over to the stereo with wet and soapy hands and turns the knob until it hits it’s limit, until it’s screaming and Billy can’t hear himself swearing anymore. Returns to the sink.

He realizes he’s been scrubbing at one spot on a clean plate when he sees movement. Looks up and Max’s mouth is moving, brows drawn up, all pissy looking. Billy slams the plate back in the sink, cuts the music, snaps, “ _What?”_

“Can you turn your music down?” She bitches back. “I’m trying to do my goddamn homework.” 

God, for a second he sees red, is just about to start _screaming_ but doesn’t know what he’s going to say, then he hears it - a car door shut. He looks toward the front of the house, out the window, and finds Neil’s pickup sat in the driveway.

He looks back at Max. Says, “Fuck you,” but keeps his music off.

For the rest of the night he plays it safe. After he finishes up the dishes he goes into his room. Doesn’t talk to anyone and keeps his music on in there so low even he can barely hear it. 

At school the next morning, he storms around the halls, looking. A kid accidentally bumps his shoulder into him and he shoves him into the closest wall with one hand, pushes him until the kid winces in pain then he lets him go. A girl calls his name and the only reason he stops is to give her a once over and to scowl at her before he keeps going. 

Billy ends up finding Harrington in the bathroom Tommy showed him his first day here. Secluded in a hall with nothing but lockers. 

His back’s to him and he’s standing in front of one of the sinks. Billy’s ready to grab him by the shoulders, spin him around and fucking shake him. Has the _stay the fuck outta my business_ sitting hot on his tongue. 

Harrington turns first, peers out over his shoulder to look at who’s at the door and -

His face is a myriad of red. Big, ugly scabs across the bridge of his nose and sliced down his lip. Blood pooled underneath his skin. One of his eyes is still swollen. 

And he doesn’t even speak. Just looks at Billy and there’s no “what do you want” or “not in the mood right now” or “what, mad someone got here first?” Just looks at him with his bloodshot eyes and. 

Just. 

Billy doesn’t know what the fuck to _say._

So. 

He leaves the bathroom. 

\--

-

\--

Steve really didn’t mean for Billy to find him that early in the day. 

He’d thought it would be easier if he’d kept avoiding Steve like he did yesterday. It was all supposed to come together in gym, where Jimmy Walsh would be there in between them. A hideous part of Steve wanted to know what Billy would’ve done. 

Because this was all still some kind of game, at the end of the day. Steve wanted to know if him and Billy were playing it the same way, is all. 

So they get to gym. Jimmy Walsh is preening around, and it’s awkward. Everyone’s staring. They’re quiet, the game is off. Steve can tell, and all of his effort goes to acting indifferent and unbothered. 

Billy is the most subdued Steve’s ever witnessed him. He still plays hard, but even with Jimmy Walsh on his team, he’s the picture perfect definition of _sportsmanlike._ Nobody hits the ground that game. It’s even, up until Billy’s team wins. 

“We can still kick his ass,” Tommy tells Steve in the locker room as they change. “I’ll fuckin’ kill him, man, you know I will.” 

Steve just shakes his head. His and Billy’s game isn’t over yet, there’s still time on the clock. 

He’s having a hard time sleeping. Usually, he lays facedown with his arms tucked underneath the pillow his face is smushed into. That’s nearly impossible thanks to the way his stomach is essentially just one big bruise. And laying on his face, which is also just _one big bruise,_ isn’t really an option either. 

He tosses and turns all night. It makes for a horrible night’s sleep. And his dad’s up and about by the time Steve’s alarm goes off, so he’s got to leave almost right away, no breakfast or coffee or anything. 

So, admittedly, he’s a little grumpy when he pulls up to the parking lot. Expecting the already-bad-day to continue being awful. 

Tommy and Carol are there, seemingly just appear at the side of his car as he opens the door, and they’re already talking - far too awake, this early in the morning. 

“Kayla said she saw Jimmy Walsh this morning,” Carol tells him, eyes wide like this is important news. 

Steve just sighs, leaning in to grab his bag from the backseat. “Thanks for the update, but,” as he straightens, he points to the eye he can still barely see out of, “I know the guy still exists.” 

“It wasn’t you?” She asks.

“What wasn’t me?”

Carol blinks at him, confused, but next to her Tommy’s smiling his hyena grin. “Someone fucked him _up_ , dude.”

Oh.

Immediately, Steve looked for the Camaro - and found it, with its owner sat right by it. It’s in the same spot, in the first parking space right before the decline leading into the walkway - people have left the spot clear lately, even on the days Billy misses. Steve loves the idea of that. But even still, it’s usually just the car. It’s part of their weird game - Steve gets the parking lot in the morning and Billy gets the cafeteria. 

Yet there he is, right over there, reclined back, elbow leaned up on the trunk of his car. The morning light’s catching the blond in his curls, the thick black lines of his eyelashes. His eyes are squinting from the sun, but he catches Steve watching. Doesn’t smile or frown or scowl. Doesn’t look away either. There’s a cigarette that hangs from its perch on the very corner of his lip, and he reaches for it. Gets it in between his middle and forefinger. 

_Oh._

Steve smirks at him, eyes catching on smudgy black-red.

Billy’s knuckles are bloody, bruised. 

“Guess no one’s gonna fuck with his step-sister again,” Tommy says, but he’s watching Steve when he does. 

Steve just laughs, feeling giddy, feeling light and heavy, feeling the pulsing in his beaten face but it’s painless.

_This,_ he thinks to himself, holding Billy’s gaze, _is power._

_\--_

_-_

_\--_

So it goes like this - 

Harrington meets him at his car after school. Billy’s waiting for Max, still. She’s late - later than usual - and he’s kinda getting pissed. It’s fucking freezing out here, but he doesn’t like to smoke in the car. Too paranoid about ashes marring the leather. 

Then up comes Harrington. Waltzes right over and stops in front of Billy like this is something they do. Billy keeps his arms crossed in front of his chest as he looks back at the kid, hopes it comes off as intimidating instead of giving away how goddamn cold he is. Maybe the look of disinterest helps sells it. 

It probably doesn’t, because Harrington keeps standing there. He’s got one of those horrible pastel polos on, hands tucked into the pockets of his blue vest he’s wearing over it. Billy stares really hard at it all and gets really angry at himself, but resolutely doesn’t admit why, even internally. 

“Need something, Harrington?”

“Nothin’, really,” he says, all cocksure and confident. Like Billy’s words aren’t dripping sour. “Car don’t have heat?” 

Billy scoffs and doesn’t respond.

Harrington remains unbothered, leans to the side a little bit, looking for something. 

“It’s gonna start snowing soon. Tires for that thing might be expensive.” 

And, like, Billy’s not _stupid._ He knows what this’s about. So he goes, “I didn’t do it as a favor, Harrington. Drop it.” 

He’s got the audacity to look at Billy like he’s clinically insane. “Okay,” he draws out, and then carries on with, “You ever drive in the snow before?” 

Billy runs his tongue along the back of his teeth. He feels like he should be real pissed. Wants to snap at Harrington. Kinda wants to tell him to fuck off, go through with what he wanted to do yesterday, tell him to stay out of his fucking business. He wants to get that stupid striped shirt bloody. Wants to get the pad of his thumb on the split in Harrington’s lip and press on it. 

But, fuck. 

His knuckles ache for a reason. 

His fingers are throbbing because of something. 

His biceps burn because of someone. 

He says, “No.” 

Harrington’s grin is bold and triumphant, like the start of summer. “I could drive you, you know. If you want, when it gets bad.” 

Billy should say no. This isn’t what they do. They don’t go more than a few seconds without pissing the other off and they don’t do shit for the other. Billy didn’t - did _not -_ beat the fucking shit out of Jimmy Walsh because he made Harrington’s face look like that. He beat the fucking shit out of Jimmy Walsh because he’s an asshole who thought he knew better. Following that logic, he should beat the fucking shit out of _Harrington,_ because he seems to have it in his head that it meant something. He’s an idiot. He’s got no fucking clue. 

“I drive my step sister,” is what he ends up saying. 

Harrington puts a lost-puppy look on his face, looks over his shoulder, then over the other, then over Billy’s shoulder and goes, “Oh, the middle school’s _right there!”_

Billy doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t want to give Harrington that yet. 

“C’mon, Billy,” Harrington says, back to his annoying ass smile.

He says yes, and it’s probably got a lot to do with the fact that Harrington calls him _Billy_ rather than _Hargrove._

\--

-

\--

So it goes like this -

Steve welcomes winter for the first time in years. 

He unironically switches the radio station over to the weather while he’s doing shit like cleaning or cooking himself dinner. He waits for snow like he’s ten again. 

He finds he likes the sight of Billy in his passenger seat. 

Eventually it all turns into Billy giving him shit for not knowing how to drive stick after he’s been teased too much for his lack of winter driving experience. On one of the clearer days, when they haven’t had a snow for a while, Billy’s Camaro is parked by Steve’s car when he’s leaving school. 

“Max is getting a ride with her nerd friends,” he tells Steve. “Get in,” and he’s walking around the wrong side of the car. 

So Steve learns how to drive manual. 

He starts getting more, takes it for himself. 

In the morning, him, Tommy, and Carol don’t stay outside anymore. Too fucking cold. That’s what he says to Billy when he sinks down in the seat next to him in the cafeteria. 

“’S too fuckin’ cold,” and Billy just eyes him. Doesn’t tell him to fuck off, Steve can’t help but notice. 

In gym, when Steve’s captain and he picks Billy, Billy plays like he wants to win rather than wanting to make Steve look like a complete fucking asshole. 

When he passes Steve in the halls, there’s no more being thrown against lockers. 

At a party during winter break, Billy plays a game of Beirut with him. He’s a little red in the face from being a little drunk, California tan almost completely gone, and he calls Steve _pretty boy._ Says, “ _go get me another drink, pretty boy, wasn’t easy carrying you through another fuckin’ win.”_ Steve sank more cups than Billy, he kept count. He still gets Billy another beer, though. 

It pretty much ends like this -

On New Year’s Eve - funnily enough, a year ending with all of this - Steve goes to another party to watch the ball drop, and when he gets there, the Camaro is parked on the block. 

He makes sure the first thing he does is find Billy. Tommy finds him first, gets him a drink. Says something dumb like, “Too bad Wheeler didn’t work out, Stevie. Gotta find some other broad for midnight.” He’s got his grin on, one eyebrow higher than the other like he told a joke Steve should be laughing at. 

Steve just rolls his eyes. “Don’t call her that. Nance is alright.” 

Tommy laughs at him, so Steve leaves. 

It’s crowded as shit. Pretty much no one is hanging out outside. There’s only so many spots next to the shitty bonfire they probably don’t have permission to be burning out there. So Steve’s constantly being touched by someone as he pushes through the crowd. 

Billy’s coming down the stairs when he finally finds him. He’s got his denim jacket on, a red flannel open underneath, a worn looking white t-shirt. Black jeans. Even from across the room, Steve can make out how red his mouth is. Like someone’s been nibbling at it. The sight of it makes him down whatever’s in the cup Tommy’s gotten him, makes him wish he’d been here earlier and that Billy’s attention hadn’t been anywhere but on him, even for a second. 

And it’s like the moment he thinks it, Billy’s looking at him. Like it’s second nature or he felt Steve’s eyes on him or maybe just knew Steve’d be there, in the doorway from the kitchen into the living room. 

Steve’s right where he’s supposed to be. In Billy’s line of sight. 

He heads for the back door. Outside where only a few people sit. Billy follows him, even when Steve avoids the bonfire and his footsteps crunch in the snow until he stops around the side of the house. Wind doesn’t hit them here, but it’s still cold as all get out. He lights a cigarette, just to hold something warm. 

Billy gets one too, but stands across from Steve rather than lean up against the house next to him. Steve watches him inhale sharply, redredred mouth pursed around the filter, cheeks hollowing. 

He breathes out and his voice is a little tight, a little husky, when he goes, “Where’s your girl, Harrington?” 

At home, probably, but Steve doesn’t say that. Just shrugs and keeps smoking. 

“Trouble in paradise,” Billy says. “She cut you loose?” 

It was pretty much mutual. Steve keeps that to himself, too. He’s kinda wondering what this is all about; they haven’t played this in a while. Not since before Jimmy Walsh. “Seein’ if you got a chance, Billy?” 

He looks up at Steve sharply. eyes wide like he’s pissed. 

Steve doesn’t really get it, so he goes, “You missed your chance on that one, dude. Just stick to trying to steal all of my friends. Nancy wouldn’t go for either of us.” 

Billy still doesn’t say anything. Just keeps puffing away at his smoke. 

Steve’s getting the sense that this has gone wrong somewhere, which blows because it’s only just started. 

“Must’ve been fun while it lasted,” he muses, just to fill the silence. “Being at the top.” 

“Th’fuck’re you talking about?” Billy asks flatly. 

He shrugs again, shifts his feet around because they’re going a little numb. “That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it? You wanted to be me? Take my spot on the team, my whole group of dumbshit friends. My girlfriend.” Nancy was never his girlfriend, but he says it because Billy’s face is twisting up all funny.

“I would rather,” he starts slowly, low and cold, “suffocate in this fucking _snow_ than even put a finger on Nancy fucking Wheeler.” 

“Why’re we talking about her, then?” 

From inside the house, dozens of voices come together, counting down from twenty. The suddenness of it makes Billy’s head jerk back up. His mouth is still red, but when he lifts his hand up for another drag his fingers are stark white. Steve wants to grab both of his hands and hold them between his. 

He lifts his arm up, tugs at the sleeve of his coat to look at his watch. It’s 11:59. 

“Better get in there, hot shot,” Steve says, makes himself smirk. “Your hookup’s probably wanting her New Year’s kiss.” 

And what Billy does next is probably a long time coming. Steve knows that it’s going to be one thing or another as he watches the other flick his cigarette away. He desperately hopes that out of the two he’s thinking of, it isn’t getting punched in the face. His lip _just_ healed. 

Billy takes full advantage of that. 

Shoves Steve back against the house hard enough it knocks all the air out of his lungs until there’s nothing but smoke billowing around in there. Then that cherry-red mouth is on his and he’s breathing out again, feels the nicotine whisper out between his lips, his nose, ghosts against his face - _Billy’s face._

He closes his eyes, grins. Gets his frozen fucking hands in the mane of dirty-blond curls, fists and pulls. 

Inside, they’re still counting, _five, four three,_ and Billy’s pressing himself closer. He’s all-encompassing, dominant, demanding, forceful, and Steve _has_ to grin about that. Because it’s Billy Hargrove, it’s so fucking Billy Hargrove it’s making his chest sing. 

“You’re so annoying,” Billy’s breathing, nose against Steve’s. “You’re so fucking annoying,” and he kisses him again.

He tastes like, _let me have it._

Tastes like, _give it to me, I want what you have._

So Steve. 

Does. 

Lets himself be kissed, holds Billy by his hips so he can’t go anywhere without Steve having a fucking say about it. Parts his lips when Billy’s tongue swipes across them, and says _take it then,_ with it. Lets Billy taste _him,_ because he knows it’s gonna feel like _this goes both fucking ways._

And it ends, so they start something new, right there. Steve pulls away, head tilting back enough that it rests against the frosted siding of the house. He untangles his hand from Billy’s hair, traces the fine-cut line of his jaw, revels in Billy’s eyes on him, him, him. He runs his thumb over the curve of his bottom lip and it comes away wet. Gently pulling at it until it gives. Drags his thumb in a straight line, down the middle of Billy’s chin. Watches the way he shivers at the cold air hitting the wet trail. 

Steve laughs. He has to. Scoffs a little, giddy as hell. 

“You couldn’t’ve handled this town without me anyway,” he tells Billy, and uses the grip he’s got on his chin to pull him back in, to kiss him again.

**Author's Note:**

> :^)


End file.
